Mondays
by Adarcoi
Summary: Here it was, staring me straight in the face, gun loaded, barrel smoking; though I was finding the realization of my situation relatively hard to actually comprehend. Now I had a reason to not like Mondays. Implied Akuroku Version Chap 2 UP! R&R Please!
1. Version 1

Monday

By: Orcadia

Rating: T+/M (For Violence)

**A/N: After listening to 'I Don't Like Mondays' about…I don't know, thirty times I just felt like writing. So this is the bastard child of Boomtown Rats, a really bad production of West Side Story, and dirty Contacts. Please don't Flame. I **_**know**_** it's bad. Just Read and Review like a good little audience! ******

It wasn't always something that bothered me, or I'd never really noticed before.

But truth was, here it was, staring me straight in the face, gun loaded, barrel smoking. I caught the lump in my throat with extreme uneasiness, finding the realization of my situation relatively hard to actually comprehend. Though, a few minutes ago nothing had seemed particularly out of place.

In reality, it hadn't been such a bad morning. The sunlight had been hidden only partially behind the blinds in my bedroom, only letting in a few strands of light across pale sand-colored carpet and piles of worn jeans and dirty t-shirts. The small orange alarm clock had rung correctly at six-fifteen, playing the soft hum of well-orchestrated alternative rock on the radio. I had tapped it in the usual manner, not to hard, yet not so softly that it didn't turn off. I'd picked myself out of the warm comfort of sheets in enough time to work my way over the bureau drawer and pull out my clothes and shamble my way over to the hallway bathroom.

Even the water that sprayed from the shower head had been perfectly normal. The steam was calming, and I could faintly hear the buzz of other alarms as the rest of the house began to also work their way from their sheets. The small rubber duck, however, no doubt left still from my sister's bath the night before, had been staring in a most peculiar manner. Yet, with painted on eyes, I'm sure I would have stared too.

I had combed my hair, and brushed my teeth. I took the few pills waiting for me in the medication cabinet, and slipped on my jeans with a towel draped over my soaking hair in the same time and tempo as every morning. The truth was, today I hadn't really felt like going to school. Most Mondays I woke up refreshed, energized, ready to start the week off, get the tests done with, and just hurry up for Saturday to roll around again. I had actually felt _tired_.

"Toast or Cereal, honey?" My mother had asked in ever-pleasant awaked-ness as she would every morning. She'd still had blue slippers on her feet and a pair of striped pajama bottoms, her hair was slightly mussed, only looking like she hadn't brushed it yet this morning. She of course hadn't noticed his sloth-like demeanor that particular morning, and merely greeted him with a small crystal glass half-full with orange juice, and a small plate with a few apple slices.

I usually ate, but though, I hadn't felt all too hungry. Though I should have noticed something was going to go wrong much further before then. "Neither Mom." I'd muttered it in a sleepy-slur that made me sound more like a fizzling television that my usual self. "I think I'll actually just have the juice today."

She'd made a hasty movement to my side as soon as the words had left my mouth, hand to my forehead, her brow creased. "Are you feeling okay, Roxas?" Her voice was breaking in all sorts of ways, biting her lip softly as she assessed my personal appearance. "Did you even fix your hair this morning?"

"Not yet, Mom." I replied, brushing her hand from my face. I'd brought the glass of juice to my lips by this point, pushing down a swallow of orange and pulp down my throat as I thought. "I've just got some work to do at school today. Y'know, project, have to be there early." I'd forced a smile to my lips, tugging at the corners, pleading. "I'm fine."

"Okay," She whispered, placing down the small hand that she had so quickly brought to my aid just as fast as it had appeared. She watched tentatively as the juice was emptied from the glass, and I moved to place the apple slices in a plastic bag. "Just know," She brought her own smile this time, the peach colored lips brighter than mine at any moment. "I love you."

It brought me back to reality. Purposely or not, knowing that I'd lied just seemed to make the morning worse. I'd stumbled off the small kitchen chair to the mirror in my bedroom, running fingers through the still damp lump of blonde hair that had begun to droop into my eyesight. The towel had been forgotten long before somewhere in the middle of the hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom. I flexed my fingers a few times, contemplating nothing and everything at the same time. For the first time in my life I truly felt it. I hated Mondays.

The room had gotten progressively brighter as I'd slid on a pair of canvas sneakers, lacing up checkered strings and pulling the side-satchel from beneath my bed where it had rested between strewn copies of Harlequin and plastic army men, all guns pointed at one surrendering figuring. The three text books, Chemistry, Trigonometry and a thin French handbook had been stuffed inside previously on Sunday evening as I'd always done. Everything seemed in perfect harmony, but the small feeling that was burning the inside of my stomach left me with the shuddering opinion that something was terribly wrong.

Usually of course I'd have taken the bus. Number eight always arrived at the end of my road promptly at seven forty-five, and left only minutes afterwards. Though the small plastic license that had burned a hole in my pocket had seemed particularly persuasive this morning, and the small silver Prius parked in the driveway had just called my name. I didn't even remember the drive to school. It was usual, stop at stop sign at the end of the street, turn, speed enough to get through the only stoplight on the route, and park in number one-thirteen right between the lamp post and the willow tree.

I'd glanced only momentarily at the analog clock on the dashboard. Thin blue-green Seven-ten glanced back, only to be torn away as a man crossed the parking lot and I pulled the keys from the ignition. The man was tall, his silver hair sweeping across his lower back as his ponytail bobbed. Two books were clutched to his chest and a series of papers were peeking from the top of his bag. Thin silvery spectacles clung to the edge of his nose and he'd been silently talking to himself.

My homeroom classroom had been open. Odd enough, the teacher's desk was open, and the lights were on, chalk words already spelled out on the board, yet the ghost feeling of loneliness was shifting uneasily beneath my skin. I hadn't even taken that long for the class to filter in, or for the usual chatter to begin.

"Did you see Riku at Selphies'?" A thin blonde girl had chattered, hands delicately crossed beneath her chin as she turned to a red-head next to her. Her voice was light and airy, and the thin white shirt around her chest creased softly with the twist of her body. "He was _wasted_. And I mean, _waste-ed_."

The red-head had laughed. It was a giddy laugh, slightly high pitched and slightly obnoxious. She'd chosen to sit behind me, and I'd almost forgotten that she was still sitting behind me, trembling and shaking ever so slightly.

It was surprising that I wasn't shaking too. I could feel the uneasiness, the fright, and the pure feeling of unleashed outrage the second the door had opened mid-way through the English teacher's Midnight Summer's Dream lecture. He was tall. That was for sure. He wore a pair of tight skinny-jeans, neon red, along with a pair of dirty back boots, half-covered with mud and shoelaces dangling. A heavy black sweatshirt dangled from his thin shoulders, odd enough since it was at least sixty-five outside. He looked angry.

He sounded angry. "Stay sitting." We hadn't even known why he'd said that. At least until he pulled the gun from his sweatshirt pocket, slowly aiming it at the teacher and fingering the trigger for a few seconds. "I've had enough, you know that?" He drew out, swishing the gun in the air as he approached the teacher. "Enough of this _shit_." Barrel to temple. And pull. The sickening sound made bile rise in my stomach, gag reflex swirling as I caught myself to pull away from the shattered and crumbing body.

The boy turned back to the class, emerald eyes gleaming, and my breath held. I _knew_ him. I _loved_ him. Axel, at least, that was what the student body called him, was the lead singer in the school's band. Splattered glittering ruby colored liquid was splayed over his face as his own lips tugged into a smile. The girls around me shrieked, shuddered at the shot and trembled half-way behind their desks. Then he advanced. Eyes glittering, his hands came down upon my desk.

"Why, Roxy," He smiled, malicious insanity sprayed over his features. My own eyes glistened with tears as he sat at the edge of the desk in front of mine. "You've got to understand," He took this small time to laugh to himself. "Some days are just like this." He sat up again, pulling the gun straight, and firing off a couple more rounds, though I was too scared to count them or look behind me to see how many students were now lying on the ground with glassy eyes and bleeding bodies.

I let out a choked cough, gagging back my vomiting as I turned to him and slowly stood up. "Why?" The question had come out shaky, and it was the final emotion that I thought I would ever feel, and I wondered if sixteen years were good enough for the rest of the world. He only grinned again, pulling back the gun and firing off at least five more. There was no sound now. The silence was even more sickening that the idea of death around me and over my head.

"I just had to." He shook his head sadly as he turned his attention to the shaking door at the front of the classroom. He quickly dug his hand into his pocket, pulling something out and quickly thrusting it into my own hands as he just as quick brought the gun to his forehead and pulled.

The blood splattered. Across my mouth, the warmth was sickening as I crumpled to the ground and shook. Though I wouldn't notice the men barging into the room after the door had been bust down. The only thing I'd notice was the white-washed walls of the hospital, and the still shaking world. The breathing had long been thick and full of quick beating heart that I hadn't even thought to unclench my hands. The first thing I'd noticed was the small class ring that I had lost two days ago, a small Necco candy heart, and a slip of white notebook paper with thin pencil scrawl.

I hate Mondays.

_Don't You?_

**A/N: Now…It's short, But It wasn't that bad…right? REVIEW, Please?**


	2. Version 2

Monday

By: Orcadia

Rating: T+/M (For Violence)

**A/N: After listening to 'I Don't Like Mondays' about…I don't know, thirty times I just felt like writing. So this is the bastard child of Boomtown Rats, a really bad production of West Side Story, and dirty Contacts. Please don't Flame. Instead, use the term "Constructive Criticism" I **_**know**_** it's bad. Just Read and Review like a good little audience! ******

It wasn't always something that bothered me, or I'd never really noticed before.

But truth was, here it was, staring me straight in the face, gun loaded, barrel smoking. I caught the lump in my throat with extreme uneasiness, finding the realization of my situation relatively hard to actually comprehend. Though, a few minutes ago nothing had seemed particularly out of place.

In reality, it hadn't been such a bad morning. The sunlight had been hidden only partially behind the blinds in my bedroom, only letting in a few strands of light across pale sand-colored carpet and piles of worn jeans and dirty t-shirts. The small orange alarm clock had rung correctly at six-fifteen, playing the soft hum of well-orchestrated alternative rock on the radio. I had tapped it in the usual manner, not to hard, yet not so softly that it didn't turn off. I'd picked myself out of the warm comfort of sheets in enough time to work my way over the bureau drawer and pull out my clothes and shamble my way over to the hallway bathroom.

Even the water that sprayed from the shower head had been perfectly normal. The steam was calming, and I could faintly hear the buzz of other alarms as the rest of the house began to also work their way from their sheets. The small rubber duck, however, no doubt left still from my sister's bath the night before, had been staring in a most peculiar manner. Yet, with painted on eyes, I'm sure I would have stared too.

I had combed my hair, and brushed my teeth. I took the few pills waiting for me in the medication cabinet, and slipped on my jeans with a towel draped over my soaking hair in the same time and tempo as every morning. The truth was, today I hadn't really felt like going to school. Most Mondays I woke up refreshed, energized, ready to start the week off, get the tests done with, and just hurry up for Saturday to roll around again. I had actually felt _tired_.

"Toast or Cereal, honey?" My mother had asked in ever-pleasant awaked-ness as she would every morning. She'd still had blue slippers on her feet and a pair of striped pajama bottoms, her hair was slightly mussed, only looking like she hadn't brushed it yet this morning. She of course hadn't noticed my sloth-like demeanor that particular morning, and merely greeted me with a small crystal glass half-full with orange juice, and a small plate with a few apple slices.

I usually ate, but though, I hadn't felt all too hungry. Though I should have noticed something was going to go wrong much further before then. "Neither Mom." I'd muttered it in a sleepy-slur that made me sound more like a fizzling television that my usual self. "I think I'll actually just have the juice today."

She'd made a hasty movement to my side as soon as the words had left my mouth, hand to my forehead, her brow creased. "Are you feeling okay, Roxas?" Her voice was breaking in all sorts of ways, biting her lip softly as she assessed my personal appearance. "Did you even fix your hair this morning?"

"Not yet, Mom." I replied, brushing her hand from my face. I'd brought the glass of juice to my lips by this point, pushing down a swallow of orange and pulp down my throat as I thought. "I've just got some work to do at school today. Y'know, project, have to be there early." I'd forced a smile to my lips, tugging at the corners, pleading. "I'm fine."

"Okay," She whispered, placing down the small hand that she had so quickly brought to my aid just as fast as it had appeared. She watched tentatively as the juice was emptied from the glass, and I moved to place the apple slices in a plastic bag. "Just know," She brought her own smile this time, the peach colored lips brighter than mine at any moment. "I love you."

It brought me back to reality. Purposely or not, knowing that I'd lied just seemed to make the morning worse. I'd stumbled off the small kitchen chair to the mirror in my bedroom, running fingers through the still damp lump of blonde hair that had begun to droop into my eyesight. The towel had been forgotten long before somewhere in the middle of the hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom. I flexed my fingers a few times, contemplating nothing and everything at the same time. For the first time in my life I truly felt it. I hated Mondays.

The room had gotten progressively brighter as I'd slid on a pair of canvas sneakers, lacing up checkered strings and pulling the side-satchel from beneath my bed where it had rested between strewn copies of Harlequin and plastic army men, all guns pointed at one surrendering figuring. The three text books, Chemistry, Trigonometry and a thin French handbook had been stuffed inside previously on Sunday evening as I'd always done. Everything seemed in perfect harmony, but the small feeling that was burning the inside of my stomach left me with the shuddering opinion that something was terribly wrong.

Usually of course I'd have taken the bus. Number eight always arrived at the end of my road promptly at seven forty-five, and left only minutes afterwards. Though the small plastic license that had burned a hole in my pocket had seemed particularly persuasive this morning, and the small silver Prius parked in the driveway had just called my name. I didn't even remember the drive to school. It was usual, stop at stop sign at the end of the street, turn, speed enough to get through the only stoplight on the route, and park in number one-thirteen right between the lamp post and the willow tree.

I'd glanced only momentarily at the analog clock on the dashboard. Thin blue-green Seven-eighteen glanced back, only to be torn away as a man crossed the parking lot and I pulled the keys from the ignition. The man was tall, his silver hair sweeping across his lower back as his ponytail bobbed. Two books were clutched to his chest and a series of papers were peeking from the top of his bag. Thin silvery spectacles clung to the edge of his nose and he'd been silently talking to himself. He seemed to be the only life in the desolate lot, and as he disappeared through the teal-green metal doors the urge of fighting to not run hit me.

Nonetheless, I had stepped from the Prius, making sure not to step into the puddle that I had parked beside. I opened the trunk of the car in one swift motion soon after, and slung the black backpack over my left shoulder and yet again neglect to grab the paperback novel from the library I had finished three weeks prior. I followed behind the teacher's path, using the same metal door, and entering into the same deserted hallway. The lockers seemed to tower over me, glaring with odd metal stairs and dragging me into a world where everything looked the same. Two-turns, one left, one right. It was a constant cycle, and I wasn't sure why I hadn't ever noticed before now how unchanging each day had been.

My homeroom classroom had been open. Odd enough, the teacher's desk was occupied, and the lights were on, chalk words already spelled out on the board, yet the ghost feeling of loneliness was shifting uneasily beneath my skin. It hadn't even taken that long for the class to filter in, or for the usual chatter to begin. The young teacher who taught my first period class, which had been chemistry for the first half of the year but had changed to pre-physics for the second, had been seated in the small cherry wood desk chair, legs crossed beneath her pink ankle length skirt, eyes lost in an old copy of Vogue. I doubt she had even noticed neither my entrance, nor my sitting in my usual seat, two rows from the front and almost diagonal from the flag.

I had been alone for a sickening amount of time. The clock felt frozen, and the bubbling feeling that had now moved from my stomach to my throat, almost choking my breaths out in quick tight bursts. I curled my fingers around the hem of my navy colored t-shirt, watching the knuckles turn white as I shifted softly in the metal desk. I had let go slowly, glancing once more at the teacher, watching as she had curled a delicate brown strand of hair around her peach colored nails, and then back at the textbook that I had set on the top of the desk between two pencils and a black spiral notebook filled with scrawl and scribbles.

The first to enter had been a delicate little thing. She'd tossed her wind blown blonde hair behind her shoulder as she adjusted her white tank-top back onto her shoulders half way to her desk. She had set two books on the desktop, a lime-colored textbook and a bubble-gum pink novel. I had always been able to smell her peach scented gloss from the seat she held, but today it had been swapped with glittering artificial strawberry which had made my stomach do flips as she smiled softly in my direction. I had chased quickly back to my textbook, watching through peripheral vision as she frowned, ever so slightly, and returned to absent-mindedly humming.

She'd only been sitting alone for five minutes before a second girl joined her. The second had slid tiny manicured nails through her candy-apple colored bob before catching sight of the thin blonde seated and had let out a shrill giggle before stumbling over on two-inch heels.

"Did you see Riku at Selphies'?" The blonde had chattered, hands delicately crossed beneath her chin as she turned to the redhead beside her. Her voice was light and airy, and the thin white shirt around her chest creased softly with the twist of her body. "He was _wasted_. And I mean _waste-ed_."

Her friend had laughed; it was a giddy laugh, slightly high pitched and overtly obnoxious, and it made me relate it to nails on a chalkboard as I returned to my thoughts and the epitomized feeling built up inside my body. She had chosen to sit near me, and I'd almost forgotten that she was still there, trembling and shaking ever so slightly.

It was surprising that I wasn't shaking too. I could feel the uneasiness, the fright, and the pure emotion of unleashed outrage the second the door had opened mid-way through her recitation of Sunday party, those which happened right after the church lets out and while everyone still feels pure they could knock back a few. She tossed a heated glare towards the front, brow furled and her lips dragging as she had caught sight of his tortured look.

He was tall. That was for sure. He wore a pair of tight skinny-jeans, neon red, along with a pair of dirty back boots, half-covered with mud and shoelaces dangling. A heavy black sweatshirt dangled from his thin shoulders, odd enough since it was at least sixty-five outside. He looked angry. Battered and irritated he had made a path towards the back of the classroom, shooting dark looks to the two boys, both of whom had walked in seven minutes exactly after the redhead girl chewing pieces of mint gum, and shoving desks aside in quick retreat to a single lonesome desk.

I'd momentarily forgotten the pain that had infested itself within my body, and the idea of uneasiness had quickly dissolved as I had glanced to the back, eying momentarily the brunette of the two boys, who had been grinning and blushing like a madman at the book he'd hid so carefully behind a camouflage cover. My eyes had traveled slowly to the tall boy, who had thrown his legs onto the desk in fervent fury, and was currently twirling a piece of lemon colored letter-paper around his long pianist's fingers.

I'd let my gaze wander across the back wall the second his liquid envy eyes had contacted my own, up and down the old dusty bookshelves, and the crumbling periodic table poster. They had stopped just short of the hanging skeleton and the shiny row of black computers. It had been because he was still watching me. He'd looked out of his thought and had caught on to my watching.

I had pulled away from the back of the class the second footsteps had entered again. Three in total, I had only recognized them from when they had used to sit on the front steps of the building, mouths half-full with light blue colored ice-cream bars. They were chatting loudly, sounding more like birds than anything else and the sheer noise that they brought with them had pulled me from my thought and peace and now I had sat, clutching the very skin of my stomach, pleading with whichever god presided to make the feeling go away.

The desks had almost been filled after the final influx of students came with the sound of the first bell. I was surrounded by the noise and the feeling which had slowly been making my body feeling nonexistent, like I had been fading away into shadows and the only thing holding me here was my realization of myself. I'd given up as I slumped forward on the desk, face buried amongst chemical bonds and Hardy-Weinberg formulas, as I let my eyes slip shut. Only for a few seconds, a minute, an hour, a day. It didn't matter, the entirety of the feeling was here, it had claimed its spot and it wasn't letting go.

The next minute I opened my eyes the classroom was full, desks on either side of my paling body were filled, quiet and attentive they had lost all care for me, not that they had held any before, I was merely a player, and as long as I didn't insult their mother, or copy their homework, I didn't matter. The young teacher had stood up, though even I could have been close to her height if we had stood next to each other, and she seemed so small compared to the large blackboard and the words she had prescribed upon it.

"I'm glad all of you made it through the weekend okay." Her smile was forced, and her voice ushered softly against the whispering that had picked up from the student populous. It was understood by the students, and maybe even the teacher herself, that none of the information that she spilled from her pretty peach lips actually retained any significance. "We'll review for the Semester Exam with the Acid-Base Reactions on page Eight-Hundred and Three." She pulled a chart from the second drawer of the wooden teacher's desk. It was only a piece of laminated printer paper over a green transparent board, yet she held it with a certain authority as she sat at the stool towards the right side of the blackboard and ran her finger down a list of weekend-prepared questions to reside on a small number within the list.

I could almost hear the incessant groan from the students surrounding me as the teacher listed off a number, followed by a series of letters and atomic symbols, none of which were copied onto the piece of lined paper that I had set just to the right of my textbook. My own hands were knotted in the legs of my jeans, scraping at something—anything—to make the pain cease its hurricane. The teacher had stood, copying the numbers and letters, the double-arrows and the charges, as the phone near the door had rung. She moved swiftly, with an odd grace and a flow of skirt as she delicately scurried to the phone. She picked it up silently, turning away from the class at about the same time that I had heard a scrape of desk chairs behind me. I had put it off as a simple slip, a student standing to retrieve a fallen pencil, or maybe slip a note to their girl, but it may have been the pit of my stomach that told me that this was the eye of the storm.

The young teacher had hung up the phone, and I had turned my attention back to her presence as she moved into the middle of front of the classroom. She ordered off names, second of which being mine, and third being _Ax-el_. Without even turning I could see ever head wheel to look at the redheaded student delinquent who was yet to remove his shoes from the desktop or stop fiddling with the piece of lemon paper. I doubt anyone had paid attention to the brunette girl, one of the three students who had allowed by quick escape from staring at Axel previously, give her quiet 'yes ma'am?'. She had stuttered slightly as she spoke up, and the teacher pushed a small slip of paper into her hands. An identical piece of paper had been placed on both mine and Axel's desks, and even before I had looked at it, I knew what it was.

_Ineligible_. It would read. Bright, bold letters screaming across the top of a small square of salmon colored printer paper, signed at the bottom in swirled cursive checked in boxes A, D, and E. I had gotten these only twice before, and after my brother had run off with his fiancé, the effects of depression had often taken a toll on my studies, but I had always grabbed back, held on with skin, and with work. It wasn't something I took lightly, and I quickly swept the note into my bag before anyone else could spy through the thin paper to see what it said.

I hadn't watched as the teacher had slowly made her way back to the abyss that Axel inhabited, like a lamb to the slaughter you could hear the fear in her footsteps as she approached his desk. Her pale hand was wrapped around the note like a lifeline, and she had set it softly on his desk in a fluid motion that could only match the swiftness of a waterfall. But the comment that just as sharp forced its way through her lips, the feeling inside my stomach leapt, shifted and strangled itself within the fear that the look of _his_ acid colored eyes shot at her.

"If only you tried, Axel." She murmured as she had placed the tiny slip over his chemistry book which had been written over with an odd graffiti-type style. "You'd be such a good boy, if only you tried…" She turned shortly after, not daring enough to look into his eyes. That was when he stood. I was scared, mainly from the idea that he towered over everyone. For only being in the eleventh grade,

It was in that second that I wanted life to end as my stomach tossed again, sending shock through my system as I pulled my quivering legs from their places and stood. This was one of the few times that the teacher had ever looked up from her paper, eyes caught in almost the same motherly glance I had witnessed earlier this morning. For a second we were gone, and he was as he had been, a stalk-tall thin boy, shaking feminine hips as he swung hula-hoops in the grass between two houses on the lonely street back in middle school. He'd had have his hair tied back then, it was a short stub-like bun and spikes of hair that had escaped were pasting themselves to the side of his pale cheeks. He'd worn loose t-shirts, plastered with Disney characters and old glam-rock bands that he had listened to on cassette tape up in the attic till the dark hours of the night. He was happy then, and it only made me wonder what had gone wrong. It was that little boy that now sat in front of the teacher with a glare of deep loathing, who had let the spikes of fire-red hair fall over his shoulders, with acid eyes that shone through the darkness and penetrated deep down to the fits of his body.

I know for sure he probably hadn't recognized me. There was too much difference between now and elementary school. No one ever remembers who shared their juice box with you or who helped push you on the swing. When they turn into the selves that they want to become, it's a different world. Surely I didn't look like the scrawny boy shorter than the rest of the class. I had been the kid sitting half-way in and out of the tire swing, dragging behind my feet in the dirt and watching as the swirls played out in the dust. I'd watch him a lot back then, and sometimes we'd have played or swung. I'd always thought it was weird, though, how he'd sometimes catch my hand to drag me off and flustered butterflies would fly to my stomach and tickle my insides and make the red in my cheeks brighter. I couldn't see the tall lanky boy now, instead he looked hardened and stern, lips crumpled into a frown and eyebrows knitted together like he was contemplating something while he shoved his hands into the front of his jacket pocket (and I watched as his icy green-colored nails disappeared into the darkness).

He didn't seem like the same kid who brought in Necco hearts every valentines day, giving them to everyone he could find. He looked broken. The glimmer in his eyes was distant; like he had just done drugs that even god didn't know of. He looked gone, his dark pupils had almost eclipsed the Kelly-green iris that was still scanning the room, washing in this odd glow. I watched as his eyes took a slow scan of the room. They passed over each face, the interest growing, spending a few seconds spreading over my own, I watched as his eyes stopped, and then he smirked. It was an odd smile, one that made me shiver just as any had back when I used to watch nineties-era horror movies in my basement alone.

He took one sudden lunge, diving his arm into the pocket, and pulling it out just as fast. It took me only seconds to register the shiny black gun I recognized like the one on my dad's bedside table. It was an older model, produced sometimes back in the nineties, a "Baby Eagle" as many called it today. I had froze in my seat, eyes wide, and mouth agape, breathing irregular shallow gasps as I trembled before a mere piece of metal. His smile had grown, and now thin bits of his white teeth were peeking through the crack of his lips. "Just stay seated, _maybe_ I won't hurt you," He had said it in a hushed whisper as he advanced on the front of the room. "Just, _please_, stay seated." I had noticed a hinting worry in his voice, but it had been quickly masked by the sound of his footsteps.  
The teacher was probably more scared than any of us; she was standing, clenching her hands on the back of the cherry-wood desk chair, peach nails impaling the poor furnishing. "I've had _enough_." He sucked in a quick breath as he spun, now facing the teacher, gun used like a gesture as his arms swung. "Enough of this _shit_." He took a step forward, making the few feet of distance between them something more like inches. "From my _fucking_ father. From _you_!" This had been the point when he had lifted the gun and placed it to the side of her face, you could see her tremble and worry behind her cherry fortress. The barrel shimmered in the rays of sunlight as they caught it from the open window, and it almost glittered as I took a quick look to the rest of the class. He sounded high; there was now a low rumble in his throat, and his eyes shone as he shook and smiled wider.

He fingered the trigger for seconds before taking a deep breath. I thought he was giving up, taking a second chance and ending this idiocy. But he didn't. He'd shot the butterflies in his stomach long before he'd stepped into the classroom with this gun. He'd pulled it, and the sound was sickening as it connected with the young woman's head, using the pressure like a muffle to the blast. I hadn't ever seen the inside of someone's skull before, and now pieces of tissue were clinging to the wall, and broken bone was littering the newly-waxed floors. I was sure one of the girls beside me had puked, the pungent odor was fervently mixing in with powder and copper as shrieks surrounded me.

The next few minutes felt like hours, as he came back towards the class, red liquid dripping from his cheeks in triangle tattoo-like markings. "Mondays." He huffed, breaking towards one of the younger girls. He brought his left hand up, slowly resting it on the side of her face and rubbing his thumb against her cheek. Her black hair intertwined with his fingers and he slowly brought the gun to her third-eye. _Pull_. _Scream._

The blood was beginning to pool around my converse sneakers, and the shaking red-haired girl next to me was clinging to her desk like a lifeline, praying to some unnamed god who she had never truly cared for to now save her life. He took a few more steps, this time not even stopping, just raising the gun and firing. I heard two bodies drop, perhaps from death or fright, but now they were down and unmoving. I hadn't enough time to look around, to see how many other students were even still there. I glanced to the clock as the sharp click of the hands and the chime of a bell sounded from the intercom.

The noise around me was horrendous. There were wails, ugly echoing cries that sunk into my brain like leeches, and made my head go fuzzy and numb; silent prayers that wove around the room in a cluster, hushed 'dear god, Mary, Jesus, and the saints' murmurs as the others whimpered. Another round as Axel clicked in another cartridge resounded around the room, breaking glass and thudding into walls and ripping through children. It had been then that I felt the mysterious shiver down the back of my neck, the distinct smell of cigarette, raspberry-chocolate, and Necco hearts. It was breath that traveled down my back, a smile that slowly pressed itself to the back of my neck as I felt my legs give out.

I would have clattered to the floor, to meet with the blank face of the blonde-haired girl that lay crumpled only inches away, if not for a pair of arms that snaked around my upper body and held me up. I sat me down into the seat that I had neglected to leave behind to bolt to the door; and slowly sat down over me, straddling my legs and sitting much like children do on a swing set while they tandem-play a spider. His gun was resting between our bodies, shifted in the middle of our crotches, the odd feeling of his body on mine as they connected through the metal. I was shaken as he moved closer, eyes making contact with my own in a forceful battle. "Poor, Poor Roxy…" He muttered, stroking the side of my face and his eyes shimmered.

"Ax…el." I murmured, slurring words between chances to breathe and swallow. His eyes drooped, half lidded as he moved, this time, closer, connecting our lips together. I was shocked, as he moved against my mouth, lips working slowly forward, turning quickly to fast shallow nips at my own thin peach ones. He bit softly, making work to pry my lips apart and make his way into my mouth. His eyes had closed, and the blood that was dripping down his face was quickly rubbing over my cheeks, layering my skin with a still-warm red copper liquid. He pulled away after what seemed like forever, eyes reopening and glowing into my own. He was cupping my face between his hands, and pushing the space between our legs tighter, pushing the gun into a smaller spot. "I _missed_ you Roxas, I_ love_ you Roxas." He muttered, dropping in for another kiss as he plunged his own hands into my pockets. "The only reason I continued this school was because of _you_." Now he looked dejected, like a kicked puppy, his head was down and he was frowning softly at the edge of his lips. "But…I can't." He continued to rub circles into my cheeks with his thumbs, "I can't do this anymore." Tears were mixing in with the blood, washing over his face in a light red. "I'm sorry."

I had been more surprised when he stood suddenly, taking the gun with him in his fast escaped. This was the time that he truly smiled, pecking me once again on the lips as he moved the gun again. I clenched my eyes together and awaited the blast to cut through my own head. Maybe I wouldn't feel it at all, like it would just be a quick and painless blast, so fast the white wouldn't even be there before your soul was on its way to heaven. I heard the click of the trigger, and I took a breathe, heart beating erratically as the shot fired, and the impact began.

***

It was oddly serene, the noise was gone, the only breathing I could here was that of myself, and for a second I felt like I was floating. It didn't feel right. There was no new air, instead the wind still swirled with the coppery scent, and was still muggy and warm. I opened my eyes, clenched as they had been, and slowly let the white wash into my pupils. It wasn't heaven. It was instead a small room, blue flower patterned wall paper and the strong smell of copper and bleach wrenched itself into my nostrils. A slow drip was sinking inside a plastic bag to my right, and the constant beep of a monitor to my left. A bouquet of daffodils and tiger lilies was displayed before the window, and a tray of cut-up chicken, mashed potatoes and pudding sat beside a pre-read newspaper. Black and while hit my eyes as I glanced towards it. _Single Survivor in High School Shooting_. I didn't want it to be me. I wanted to be with them, and I lurched forward. Take me with them; no one would miss me!

This had been the moment that I noticed the man sitting in front of me, cross-legged in a leather backed chair that sent creases into his black suit. His head was down, one hand raking over the long ice blonde hair that was hanging on his shoulders. His mouth was caught in the midst of a sigh, as he sat up, glancing up to me from the few feet that kept us apart. "Good morning." He murmured, sure to add no chipper happiness to his tone, there was no room for such easygoing nature. "I'm sure you don't claim to understand such an outcome as this," He stood while speaking, advancing on my bedside as he held his hand out. There was a small piece of lemon colored paper between his fingers, and the edge of the red scarf around his neck bobbed against the crisp white bed sheets. "After all, hearts are so unpredictable."

I gave him an odd glance as I shifted to open the slip of paper. "It was found in the pocket of your jeans," He added, moving back against the small bedside table. "I know how hard it must be for you." He took another sigh as he took a long chance to close his eyes. "But I need you to tell me _everything_ about last Monday."

Tears were welling in the sides of my eyes. It was so wrong. I wasn't supposed to be here, and I fought down the lump that was growing in my throat as I began to tell him. "_It wasn't always something that bothered me, or I'd never really noticed before…_"

**A/N: I re-tweaked it. It took me like a month, but I think I'm happy with it. I can't imagine someone going through this, the feeling, the pain that they must have suffered when people that they had known forever were gone, and left them behind. I almost cried while I was writing this. I don't mean to make high school shootings something of entertainment; I just find it a purpose, something that some people turn to when in their minds they have no where else to turn. Thank you very much for reading. I do hope you review; I love to hear the after-effect. **

**3 Orcadia 3 **

"_For once, it's my show. _

_I hold the key here. I know who wins or looses._

_Who am I?_

_A Nobody. I may never be a Somebody._

_But you are the one who made me feel. _

_Who forgot how much I hated Mondays._

_But, there's the thing._

_I hate Mondays._

_Don't you?"_


End file.
